Luck Of The Irish
by Caitlyn Rose
Summary: "Henry." she starts, her voice quiet and urgent. "I think I'm DRUNK. Oh God, am I? I think I am. A little." [Henry. Elizabeth. A party.]


**7:45 pm**

He catches a flash of her across the room, beautiful in her high heels and that emerald green dress that falls just past her knees. She's chatting and smiling, a glass of something sparkling in her hand, and he can see her engagement ring sparkle in the light too.

Henry is so proud. Proud that she's his, yes, always, but mostly just proud of her.

It hasn't always come easy to Elizabeth, this business of weaving her way around a roomful of strangers - he knows that. He might be the only one, in fact, who really knows that.

She'd pushed herself, though, as she did with everything else in her life; practiced her way to the grace that now seems effortless. And, tonight, he'd wager that she's actually genuinely enjoying herself.

He is, for that matter, having a surprisingly good time himself. Lively music and lilting accents punctuate the familiar D.C. chatter, and there seems to be an unusually high proportion of artists and academics out in force. That's really the secret to a halfway decent party, Henry has come to think. Politicians, he finds, are like hard liquor: usually much more palatable with a diluting agent.

His gaze flickers back to Elizabeth - always back to Elizabeth - and she seems to sense it somehow, her own eyes darting in his direction. They're standing in separate groups - in the midst of two separate conversations, even - but they smile at each other swiftly, secretively.

 **8.15 pm**

"Hey."

"Hey yourself."

His eyes dart down pointedly to the the small selection of hors d'oeuvres on his plate, and he looks up at her, one eyebrow raised wryly.

"So I just have to say-"

"I know." she interrupts immediately, knowing what's coming, realizing she has little choice but to fall on her sword on this one. "You were right. I'm sorry. We should have had the pizza."

(But they were late, she'd said, they didn't have time to wait for it to defrost. There would be tons of food at the event anyway, she'd said. _Tons._ )

Henry looks again at his meager portion, and back at her. "We should have had the pizza," he agrees solemnly.

"I feel like I saw these guys come around with food once," - Elizabeth gestures vaguely to the waiters circulating the room - "and I've seen 'em with drinks like seven times already."

"Apparently there's a full bar set up next door too."

Elizabeth frowns in confusion. "Next door to the embassy?"

"No, next door as in the next room."

"Oh - well." She shrugs, not exactly happy, but not exactly ready to get exercised about it. "I guess where we know where the budget went for this party."

"Right? This is good, though," Henry acknowledges, nodding again towards his plate.

"Yeah?"

Elizabeth wastes no time in pilfering a goats' cheese tartlet, popping it into her mouth in one swift bite.

Henry just looks at her.

"That's like 25% of my dinner, I just want to point that out," he says drily.

"Yeah, well. We're married, Henry," she replies through a mouthful of food, her contrition on the pizza front having evidently faded fast. "Technically speaking, you should be giving me half."

 **9.30 pm**

She sidles up to him unannounced, tugging at his sleeve and pulling him towards the perimeter of the room. The place is still filled with people, the music still going, so there isn't really a quiet corner to be had, but this will have to do.

"Henry." she starts, her voice quiet and urgent. "I think I'm _drunk_. Oh God, am I? I think I am. A little."

She's so earnest, and there's something about her in this moment that reminds Henry so completely of the twenty-one year old he first met - the one who'd sincerely worried she hadn't done quite enough extra credit work over spring break. Along with all of the other things that his wife undoubtedly is - powerful and smart and kind of a ball buster sometimes - he finds her _adorable_ , and all he can do is laugh.

"No, you can't laugh," she says, though she's half-groaning, half-laughing herself now. "How did this happen, I don't understand."

He shrugs. "Open bar, baby."

"I can't talk to any more people, okay? This is a _work event_."

"Uh, babe, have you looked around this _work event_?" he asks, imitating her emphasis. "Everyone here is about two drinks away from totally hammered."

Elizabeth pauses, glances around, tries to assimilate this new information. Could it be true?

She turns back to her husband. "How do _you_ feel?"

He shrugs once more. "I feel fine."

"Oh _Henry_." She's almost comedically despondent. "Really?"

Henry's lips twitch in amusement. "I can catch up with you if you want," he offers.

He's gallant that way.

 **10:15 pm**

She's on the mezzanine, and she scans the lower floor for him, picking him out of the crowd easily.

He's mid-conversation with an ambassador - a fifty-ish woman Elizabeth has met on a few occasions - and he's done what he said he would. She can tell by the slight flush in his cheeks, by the way he's moving his hands more than usual as he talks. He must still be coherent, though, because whatever he's saying, the ambassador looks - predictably - to be eating up. Henry's particular gift of charm without smarm has always played well with the ladies. Over the years, Elizabeth has listened, amused, while undergrads and world leaders alike have told her how _wonderful_ her husband is.

She skips down the stairs to join him.

"Ambassador Quinlan, I see you've met my husband Henry," she says, and Henry turns at the sound of her voice, pulling her into him instinctively, an arm looped around her shoulders.

"I have indeed, he's just a font of information, this one."

Elizabeth smiles indulgently. "He sure is," she says, shooting Henry a sidelong glance that lets him know she's not quite as in awe of him as all that.

"And may I say what a pleasure it to see _you_ , Madam Secretary," the ambassador continues enthusiastically. "Really an honor. You know, I hate to talk shop, but I wonder if you might have a moment to discuss the latest with the Scots. As you're aware it's all very delicate, but I'm sure you'd know just exactly how to handle it."

Elizabeth's expression freezes. "Oh. Uhh..." she stalls for time, scrambling to identify any fact about Scotland with which she may have been presented in the preceding days. Suddenly, she is sober enough to know that she's really too drunk for this.

"You know I think the best thing, Ambassador, would be for you to come into the office?" She says, immediately noticing her own rising inflection - that awful uptalk she's tried so hard to train Stevie and Alison out of. She nods decisively, though; tone aside, the idea sounds like a good one when she hears it aloud. "Yeah. Like you say, this is a very…tricky old situation, and I think the best thing is for you and I just to take some time, and just really hash it out together, huh? Do you know Blake, my assistant?"

She scans the room quickly, knowing he can't be far away and - _yes_ \- there he is, like a beacon, looking in her direction and poised to swoop in. "That's Blake right there, you see him? The tall guy? Why don't you go catch him right now and he'll set something up."

The other woman looks delighted. "Well, that's just wonderful, I will indeed. Thank you, Madam Secretary! I'll look forward to talking with you."

"Can't wait!" Elizabeth says weakly, her face crumpling as soon as the ambassador is out of sight.

"Uh… _tricky old situation_?" Henry can't help but repeat, and she elbows him swiftly, a snort of laughter barely restrained.

Still, she makes an attempt at her sensible face. "That's a technical term. You wouldn't understand."

"Well, I'm sure you'll know _just exactly_ how to handle it"

She rolls her eyes. "Shut up," she says, as he leans in to kiss her.

"You taste like whiskey," she murmurs, smiling against his lips.

"You taste like wine."

She giggles "Are we about to write a country song right now?"

Henry doesn't reply, just kisses her again

She feels just the barest brush of his tongue against hers, and it's sexy, and _he's_ sexy, and she needs to be away from anyone who might want to talk to her about foreign policy.

 **10.30 pm**

They've found their way into a small library, with dim lighting and mahogany bookshelves lining the walls from floor to ceiling.

It has a big brown leather armchair, and Elizabeth is on Henry's lap, her legs slung across the arm of the chair, shoes flung off long ago.

Henry, somehow, has procured for them a decanter filled with amber liquid.

"They told me it was Bushmills. Which is made in Northern Ireland apparently," he says.

"Okay."

"So, we're supporting their economy, right? And post-conflict societies need strong economies."

"Right."

"...Basically by drinking this whiskey, we're supporting the Northern Irish peace process."

"I definitely want to do that," Elizabeth says seriously.

They smile like fools and clink glasses, and Henry runs his fingers along the smooth skin from her ankle to her calf.

"Are my legs streaky?"

She'd hastily applied some self-tan the night before, done an equally hasty scrub at it in the shower this morning, and hoped for the best.

He shakes his head. "They're perfect."

"You're nice to me, Henry McCord."

He smiles softly. "You were the most beautiful woman in that room tonight. In any room, really."

She chuckles, knocking her forehead against his temple. "Ah, you're just trying to get laid."

He laughs along with her, but shakes his head gently, because actually, he's not.

And Elizabeth finds herself blushing just a little, feels a familiar rush of warmth spread through her like liquid, because actually, she knows he's not.

Or, at least, not _entirely._

 **11.30 pm**

"Oh! Madam Secretary, I was just…just checking where you were," Blake says smoothly, all would-be composure.

"Blake!" Henry exclaims. "Hi! We're playing a game."

"…Oh?" Blake manages, wondering if he wants to know.

"Henry's reading out quotes to me from some of these books," Elizabeth says, gesticulating wildly towards the shelves, "and I'm guessing if it's a real Irish poet, or just some crap he made up,"

"Oh, also!" she adds excitedly. "If it _is_ an Irish poet, I get extra points if I can identify that poet."

Henry nods. "Elizabeth…she's pretty smart, you know?" he explains, affecting as sage a tone of voice as he can muster. "She needs a challenge."

At this, she digs her elbow into him with a grin, both of them exploding into sudden, barely-stifled laughter.

"Uhh, Blake, could you do me a quick favour?" she says then, some attempt at composure.

"Anything, ma'am."

"Could you just…call our kids? Just call them real quick, and just tell them..tell them that Henry and I, we're stuck late at a…"

"- _work event_ ," the McCords chime simultaneously, both of them laughing their heads off again.

"Of course, Madam Secretary. Right away."

"Hey Blake, you want a drink?" Henry offers, reaching for the whiskey.

"Oh, no! Dr McCord, thank you, but I think I'd better, you know, keep a clear head and all that."

"Oh Blake! No, you don't understand!" Elizabeth exclaims happily. "Everyone gets a pass tonight. I didn't know either, at first, but apparently everyone gets a pass."

"…Why?"

"Why? Well, Blake. Because it's _Saint Patrick's Day_."

Henry glances down at his watch. "Almost."

"Right. St Patrick's Eve."

" _And_ we're at the Irish Embassy," Elizabeth adds a second later. She turns to Henry, eyebrow quirked. "…Do you think it's, like, _always_ Saint Patrick's Day here?"

"Is it?" Henry answers her question with a question blithely. She doesn't seem to notice any more than he does.

"I don't know, I've never been here before." She looks back at Blake. "Have _you_ ever been here before, Blake?"

"No ma'am," he clears his throat. "This is, uh…" he beholds the scene before him again, tries to swallow a smile, "this is definitely a first for me."

 **12:45am**

They're in the back of a car, the drive between Massachusetts Avenue and their house not seeming long enough.

"Euuuuuugh God," she moans suddenly, meaning it. "I wish we were staying at a hotel tonight."

Henry smirks. "Me too."

"Not for that reason, professor. Although," - when she thinks about it - " _yeah_ , also for that reason. It's just tomorrow morning and the kids and all… they're not little anymore, you know? They know what hungover looks like."

"We're not going to be hungover," he scoffs, waving away her concern easily

" _Henry_ ," she replies, and it's the voice she uses with especially slow foreign leaders. "We're _gonna_ be hungover. The only way we're not is if we're still drunk. Which is worse."

He winces a little. She's probably right. "It was fun tonight, though," he says, and she smiles.

"I love Saint Patrick," he continues happily, sounding like he really couldn't feel more warmly toward the guy. "Did you know he was actually born in-"

She cuts him off with gentle fingertips pressed to his thigh, more insistent lips against his mouth. "Don't tell me any facts," she mumbles into the kiss, and he doesn't miss a beat.

"Too much of a turn on? I get it. Let's wait till we're alone."

Elizabeth bursts into laughter, kissing him again, both her hands clutched to his face, her tongue flicking teasingly against his. Of the ways she most liked to spend her time when she was 22, not all still seem like as much fun to her now, but this really does.

"I don't know how I found you," she says, shaking her head a little as they pull apart for air. And there's laughter in her voice, still, but Henry watches as her eyes get that little bit warmer, hazier. "Seriously," she adds. "So many people just…don't. You know? They don't ever _find_ the person."

Henry just smiles gently, leaning forward to kiss her again. "We got lucky," he replies.

He makes it sound so simple. Between the two of them, it really always has been.

* * *

I actually wrote this in March 2015 but didn't post it for some reason - came upon it, and although it's not seasonal at all now, hope you enjoyed :)


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